


Never Create Anything, It Will Be Misinterpreted

by Barking_Spiderweb



Series: Once There Came a Man [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Anti-Hero, Assimilation, Benny sold his soul to the devil, Caesar's Legion, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Flirting, Gen, Implied Relationships, Independent New Vegas (Fallout), Loss Of Culture, M/M, Murder, New Vegas, POV Outsider, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Queerplatonic Relationships, Regret, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited, he isn't sure if he regrets it, lines taken strait from the game, local man shoots a mailman, surprisingly, this doesn't come back to bite him in the ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-22 11:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17662007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barking_Spiderweb/pseuds/Barking_Spiderweb
Summary: "Across from him kneels a courier, within two months' time they will be the Courier. He can't possibly know this yet." Benny kills a man just attempting to do his job, nothing turns out as it should.





	Never Create Anything, It Will Be Misinterpreted

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the book **Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas** by Hunter S. Thompson. "My Body is a Cage" by Arcade Fire was the song that set the mood for me while writing.

Across from him kneels a courier, within two months' time they will be the Courier. He can't possibly know this yet.

He's on his third consecutive cigarette when the Khan speaks up again, his fellow tribesmen nearly finished digging the shallow grave for their unfortunate graveyard company.

"You got whatchu were after, so pay up."

"You're crying in the rain, pal." Benny can see the Lucky 38 in the distance, New Vegas shining brightly in all it's splendor. There's a hollow pain in his gut.

"Guess who's waking up over here."

Right on time. He takes one last drag from the partially complete cigarette before dropping it, grinding it out beneath the heel of his shoe. "Time to cash out."

"Would you get it over with?" The Kahn growls.

"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't-a fink, dig?" Benny doesn't bother waiting for a reply from the nameless leader of the extra hands he hired. He might have finally managed to shut the man up. "You've made your last delivery, kid." He explains to the wide-eyed courier, platinum chip heavy between his fingers "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene." He reaches beneath his suit jacket, slipping the precious chip away into the inner pocket over his heart and withdrawing his 9mm. "From where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck. But, truth is... the game was rigged from the start."

Maria sings sweetly in his palm.

The courier's mouth works wordlessly for a moment, his face partially frozen in delayed shock as blood begins to spill from the newly made bullet hole above his right eye. There's a wheezing hickuping sound followed by what remaining tension in the body leaving it all at once. He finally slumps forward, dead, with little further fanfare. The deed is done.

The Khan on his right commands the clean up of the body, it's simple work.

Benny pauses, looking one last time to New Vegas on the horizon. This won't be the last time he sees it, he's already heading back that way, but things will never be the same from this moment onward. He's in the end game now, the NCR on his left, Caesar's Legion on his right, and Mr. House towering above him, ever present.

He leaves the Khans to do the last of it on their own, trekking down the hill to the town below on his own. It looked like there'd been a saloon and Benny could use something to calm his nerves.

The saloon door slams behind the bartender, not loud enough to startle the Khans slumped over on the far side of the porch, but more than enough to get his attention. He catches her eye from his spot on the bench next to the door when he looks up from the platinum poker chip in his hands. She gives him a singular cutting glare, turning to the passed out Khans to do the same thing. She'd thrown them out after the ginger one (Jess?) had knocked her radio with a great sweep of his arm when telling an over exaggerated story.

She gets down the porch and nearly out of his line of sight before she turns back around with squared shoulders and marches back to him. Bold as can be.

"Get out of town," She commands from the bottom of the steps, voice low and her eyes hard.

He's just so tired, Maria rubbing solidly on the underside of his arm beneath his suit jacket. He looks at the nobody sour from some strangers in her town, he thinks of House coming to his tribe with the promise of a glorious future. (Or a forgotten grave in the desert.) An ultimatum pouring out of a securitrons speakers, a smirking face spelling change with a hand held out to shake and another with a knife held tightly behind the back.

"I said, get out of town!"

He can still feel Ringo's blood splashing across his face, sliding over his hands like river water fresh from the source. He's brought the blade down on the chief himself, accepted House's offer with blood still drying on the dusty floor two huts away. House had worn the same smirk when Benny agreed as when the offer had been posed for consideration. As if he knew what Benny would do all along. But he learned later that House had only one face to give them. For all his greatness he couldn't even be bothered to give himself emotions.

"I only had 'em dig one grave," He sighs, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "I'm sure I can get 'em to dig another one, baby. No trouble."

He watches her stumble away from him with disinterest, there's more fear in her eyes than the unlucky delivery boy had when kneeling tied up next to his grave.

"No one would care," He offers. The twang he had shed to impress Mr. House having long since risen from its grave with the drinks earlier. Or maybe he's just stopped caring.

She turns and runs.

He falls asleep there on the bench, chip tucked back against his heart.

It's not worth the trouble to head back through Quarry Junction, he says as much to the pack of Great Khans come morning. They travel the rest of the way without stops, going their separate ways at last.

The Strip is unchanged, the same dazzling lights and wasted NCR soldiers stumbling through the streets between casinos.

Swank welcomes him back to the Tops with the customary, "Took you long enough," and things go back to normal. Or as normal as they can with the platinum chip burning a hole his breast pocket. He'd almost be biting his nails in anticipation if he wasn't just as wary of undertaking the upcoming step.

He makes it near a month before he hears the first rumours. They're fantastical in their retelling of events. Stories of a man crawling from his shallow grave to get revenge on whoever put him there with a bullet to the head. Slaughtering a prison's worth of escaped convicts when they threatened a town, cutting off Caesar's trigger finger in Nipton, and ending a standoff in the remains of Boulder City. It's all wrapped up and chased down with the title of Courier.

It's too heroic to be true, so he convinces himself it must be a fairytale. Especially when word of the renowned Courier appearing to Freeside makes its rounds on the Strip. It has to be a coincidence at the very most.

He thinks of running like a coward before the courier can get the chance to stumble upon him. But this is his casino, soon the whole Strip will be his and House will be lobotomized. Living out his remaining life at Benny's whims, like the tribes have for the last years. He won't run, he's never run from something before.

There's a ghost in his home, speaking to Swank with a devilish smile. A ghost he saw buried on a hill with New Vegas watching over his shoulder. There's no more time for stalling, he's on borrowed time now, it's do or die. He runs like he promised himself he wouldn't.

He's surprised he makes it out at all, not gunned down in Freeside by securitrons. A back full of lead like all the others daring enough to test out House's promise of annihilation. He must know, the ghost walked into the Lucky 38 like it was his own after all.

The New Canaanites preached of a woman giving birth to a god, it figured that her name would be tied to another one. Even if it were because of a bullet to the head.

It's a close shave but he makes it across the river, and then with a change of clothes and a few muttered words exchanged he makes it into the Legion camp. 

Fortification Hill is a shithole if he does say so himself, and ring-a-ding, he says so. And that isn't because he got caught within spitting distance of the weather station.

The legionaries drag him through camp for all to see, they must assume him an NCR spy at first, looking to shame him for being caught before hanging him up. But he's taken right to Caesar when they find the chip in his back pocket. He can't help but suspect it would have been better if they nailed him to one of those crosses. (He's proven right when the strip him bare and do as they please for information.) Consequently, he ends up kneeling with his hands tied before the man himself all the same while waiting for the courier.

There's a murmur of voices from outside the tent, specifically a barking laugh that sounds far from being joyful. Not like he would expect to hear delighted laughter within a legion camp. (Unless it was brought on by someone else's pain.) There's the whisper of the canvas flap being pushed aside followed by the uncomfortably familiar muffled clicking sound that spurs make when worn on carpet.

Caesar's guest hesitates at the intersection were the tent opens up into the wider room that makes up Caesar's court, eyes furiously scanning his surroundings. The same pair of brown eyes that'd looked at him in shock all those months ago pin him in place with only a grim satisfaction where there was once was fear. The courier's smirk doesn't waiver when he turns back to meet Caesar's gaze and approaches the man's throne.

"You're the courier who's caused so much trouble for my Legion, and yet you dare come before me. Vulpes Inculta, the best of my frumentarii, is dead. All the bribes I sent to the Omertas ended up buying me nothing. The Great Khans aren't exactly clamoring to fight for my Legion now. The garrison I established at Nelson has been wiped out. Years of meticulous scheming to place a mole at Camp McCarran—wasted. You even disrupted a promising weapons deal with the Van Graffs. So tell me this, because I really want to know. I am feared—with good reason. But you—of all people—dare to come here and stand before me, the mighty Caesar. What were you thinking?"

The courier, very clearly, isn't thinking.

"You, Caesar the Mighty, are in possession of something that interests me."

He can't see the smug smile that must be decorating the courier's face, but he can certainly hear it when he speaks like that.  
Caesar's eyes move from the courier, sliding to Benny as he speaks his following words. "We'll deal with Benny when the time comes. In the meantime..."

Their little talk is short and sweet, Baldie posturing and Courier kicking his foot back and forth like a petulant child. Then the chip is handed over like it's just some run-of-the-mill poker chip to be handed off whenever Baldie sees it fit.

Fink.

The courier comes to a halt in front of him on his way to do the old man's bidding, one hand resting on his hip in a familiar position that promises a fight, but the holster that would hold his gun is empty. So all it does is draw attention to how he let them neuter him.

"Long time..."

"No, see?" The courier answers with a crinkling of his eyes, his lips already curved up into a mockery of a smile. He reaches into his back pocket, shaking a cigarette loose from its yellowed carton.

"Go ahead and laugh, baby. I ain't blind to the humor in this situation."

Courier hums, lowering himself down onto his knees so their eye-to-eye.

"Want one?" He asks, shaking the cigarette carton up and down for emphasis.

"Nah, lil' tied up."

"Pity."

The silence stretches, Courier leans forward into Benny's space. He can smell the lingering smoke from Courier's previous cigarettes, sweat, and the copper tang that comes with blood. Courier lifts the cigarette to his lips without breaking eye contact.

He can feel the eyes of the whole tent on them, and he'd rather like to avoid that much scrutiny. "Baby, I—"

He jolts at the feeling of the courier's hand on his own, pressing something cold and hard and sharp down atop his hands until he opens his palm and takes it. The courier's hand lingering for a moment longer before pulling away.

"For the ropes, I'll need you in a pinch." He whispers, then louder for the rest of the tent's occupants: "Maybe we should fight it out in the arena, fair and square."

"You'd do that for me, baby? Don't tease if you don't mean it."

"Don't worry your pretty little head over that," Courier drawls, the unlit cigarette bobbing between his smirking lips. "I've gotten a glimpse behind the king's curtain, his neighbor ain't looking too hot either. We both know how this is gonna go."

He stands with a final conspiratory pat on Benny's cheek before nodding once to Baldie and exiting the tent with the ever sought after chip back in hand. Now all there is for Benny to do is wait, and cut away at the rope binding his hands as quietly as possible.

The second's tick by in silence, much like they had before word came of Courier's arrival in camp and he'd been dressed back up and dragged from the prisoner's tent to Caesar's own for the grand presentation.

Without warning the ground rumbles, like a beast being awoken from its eternal nap. (Or the collapse of New Vega's livelihood.) The blade slips from where he'd been sawing against his bindings and digging painfully into the unprotected flesh of his wrist. He's free though. There are cries of alarm and the crash of objects toppling over but he doesn't have the care to worry over that.

It's only when the commotion following the earth-shaking has died down that Courier barges into the tent at a sprint, wild-eyed and panting.

"I felt the ground shake a while ago. I'll take that as a sign you got the job done."

"Have you ever been to Zion, Caesar?"

It's an innocuous question, the randomness of it suspicious.

"Because I have. I was actually there recently, myself. It's beautiful this time of year."

The leader doesn't display the rage Benny expected him to at the courier's words, simply sighing with the bridge of his nose pinched between two fingers. Long-suffering, as if he is friends with Courier instead of enemies.

"Is there a reason for you senseless babbling, Courier?"

"Yeah, actually, there is." He responds with a wave of his hand, "You see I met a man down there in Zion—I met more than one, obviously, there were two separate tribes there. But that doesn't matter, what matters was I met a man. He was practically a ghost story, a legend that everyone knew about."

Caesar does respond to that, stiffening in his chair, mouth opening to probably command the courier's silence.

"I think you know him, because he knows you." Benny can hear the feral glee in Courier's voice, "They called him the Burned Man, but he introduced himself as Joshua—"

"Quiet, yourself," Baldie warns with a voice far more threatening than any of the man's other previous warnings.

"What?" Courier mocks with exaggerated shock, "No talk of the illustrious Malpais Legate in your presence, Edward?"

Benny can see Courier lift his chin, daring the other man to go for his throat.

There's a lull, a moment where everyone's waiting for the other to make the next move. For Courier to end his taunting and get straight to the point by trying to put his (admittedly tinny) switchblade between Caesar's eyes or the big man himself hauling the arrogant idiot off to be crucified. Benny values his life far too much to wait on either of them to decide the fate of the fight.

The praetorian doesn't see it coming, even with his weapon in hand he's too distracted to immediately recognize the pain in his thigh for what it is. The spray of blood that gushes from the wound when Benny wrenches the blade free blinds him for a second longer than he'd like.

_Ringo's blood splashing across his face, sliding over his hands like river water fre—_

His ears ring from the roar and that's enough to knock him back on his ass. Right back into reality. And by happenstance just in time to roll out of the way of a different praetorian's downward swinging machete that probably would have craved his skull in two.

A wide swing from the blue thing, smacks his opponent's head from behind, knocking the weapon from his hand and sending him stumbling blindly past Benny.

The machete's free for the taking then, so he snatches it up, finishing it's original wielder off with a simple hack to the back of his neck as he attempts to get his feet under him. The blade is nicely sharp so it cuts through the flesh of the praetorian's neck with ease. It doesn't even shudder as it grinds past the bones.

The fight is short, the aftermath leaving the blue supermutant hissing indecipherable words to itself on the other side of the tent. There's robotic orb he didn't realize was there until it ashed one of the guards aiming to run him through with a barbaric spear when he was busy with another, and the courier still huddled partially atop Caesar, pining the man to his throne while muttering something in his ear. Probably more taunts relating to the aforementioned Burned Man.

The eyebot lets out a low whistle, communicating something to the courier that Benny can't pick up on.

"I guess this is where it ends, Edward."

Baldie blubbers something Benny can't understand.

The courier clambers off the body with bloody hands and that same infuriating smile on his face.

"Your name?" Benny finds himself asking, the only name he had ever heard for this man answer to was more of a title than anything else.

The man in question hums consideringly, a hand rubbing a bloody streak along his jaw. "You can call me Percy."

**Author's Note:**

> I got bitten by a radioactive book, my new name is Writer-Man. I'm kidding, don't worry, why would I go by Writer-Man?


End file.
